


To Simulate the Burning of the Heart

by vellaphoria



Category: DCU, DCU (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Hunters, Horror, M/M, Non-Consensual Vampirism, Non-Linear Narrative, Rape/Non-con Elements, Vampire!Ra's, hunter!Tim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-08 17:54:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20839625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vellaphoria/pseuds/vellaphoria
Summary: Tim wakes up in an abandoned factory with an ache in his neck, a voice in his head, and no memory of how either of them got there.It doesn't occur to him that he'd broken the first rule of being a hunter: never go after the monster alone.





	To Simulate the Burning of the Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Day 7 of Ra'sBat week: Mythical Creature AU
> 
> Vampires count as mythical, right? XD

Regaining consciousness is the first desperate breath after being submerged in cold, dark water.

Tim snaps awake in an instant, eyes wide open. His breathing catches and rasps. His hand flies to his neck but the movement jars him. His body, limp and sluggish.

The ground he's on is cold concrete - probably still the abandoned factory - and it seeps through the kevlar and nomex of his costume.

Tim forces himself upright, bracing himself on hands and knees. The dark room swirls around him. Stacks of dusty wooden crates cast deep shadows. Something seems to move in the darkness around him. But when Tim's eyes readjust, there's nothing there.

Nothing but boxes, the room's broken light, and the door hanging barely ajar. The hallway is the only source of faint, cold light. It slants through the opening, the pale ray of it just out of reach.

Tim tries to calm his ragged breathing. When that fails, he does his best to listen beyond it. He hears... nothing. No distant footsteps. No scuttling of the rats indigenous to Gotham's abandoned factories. No fighting, though by rights he should still be close enough to hear the battle.

Silence.

But what he _feels_...

There's a chill in the air he hadn't felt when they first entered the factory. The air seems thinner, somehow. The shadows, deeper. Darker.

It's the sort of feeling a place only gets when _he_ has been there. So, he must have been at some point, but Tim...

Tim can't remember. Every muscle in his body hurts. He wavers where he sits, fighting for balance. Between Tim and the light, his mask lies discarded. Risking vertigo, he lurches to scoop it up.

Something sharp and painful twinges in his shoulder and neck, but Tim fights through it. At first glance, the mask is undamaged. But held up to the sliver of brightness, he can see that the left lens is broken. How did that...

Without even thinking about it, Tim fishes in his utility belt for one of the spares he keeps on hand. You can never be too careful, after all. And Bruce is nothing _but_ careful.

The old, broken lens pops out easily, and Tim slides the new one into place. Good as new. The seals are fine. He slips it back on immediately, even as a cold sliver of fear works itself beneath his skin. He's lucky nothing found him here while he was unconsciousness. Nevermind a broken lens. Without his mask _at all_, he'd have been easy prey.

His _bo_ staff, thankfully, is still in his belt. Tim snaps it out and wedges the end of it into a divot in the concrete.

Pushing himself up is hell. His muscles burn with it, and when he's finally upright his arms fall lax at his sides, like a marionette with its strings cut.

Slowly, carefully, Tim lurches towards the door. Twice, he has to stop and lean on crates to steady himself. By the time he reaches the door to kick it open, his breathing borders on erratic.

Behind him, the room feels _foreboding _in a way the world hasn't since Tim cast his first throwing knife in molten silver. He glances behind him, just to check.

In the space where he was lying are small, dark discolorations. Like spilled drops of blood.

Tim's heart skips a beat. His hands twitch in their death grip on the doorframe.

When he blinks, there's nothing there.

_Pay no mind, Little Bird_.

Tim shakes his head. What is he _doing? _He has to get back to the others...

With a grip on the doorframe, Tim pushes himself forward and out into the hallway. The lights overhead flicker, playing havoc on Tim's sense of balance. With one hand steadying himself against the wall, he pushes forward. Step by step. He feels open. Exposed. A chill creeps down his back. Like eyes are following his progress down the hall.

He whips around.

Nothing.

Behind him, emptiness. Just the dim, silent hallway and the gaping door of the room he'd woken up in. The shifting of his foot echoes down the hall. The dust in this place has barely been disturbed except by his own passage. No footsteps lead into the room, only out of it.

Then how is it possible for him to have woken up here...

_Pay no mind._

Tim sucks in a sharp breath. It's grounding, or at least it's supposed to be. Subtly, he angles himself so that as much of the hall is in his peripheral vision as possible. Another step forward. Another. Tim edges down the hall slowly, eyes trained for an approach from the front, from behind him. Every five steps, his eyes dart up to the ceiling. Just in case.

He reaches the corner. Leaning just barely out, just far enough to see.

Another hallway. Equally empty.

And at the end of it, a door.

Tim looks back. The room he came from is still there. From here, a sliver of darkness is all he can see of the inside. Tim stares straight at it, eyes boring into it as if answers will come spilling out. Answers that he _needs_ -

_Pay no mind._

He -

Tim needs to get back to the rest of them. It's been far too long. And if he can't hear the fight anymore...

The darkness of the now-distant room is unchanging, mocking him. Tim narrows his eyes. His heart trips over itself, beating quickly. He shifts one foot, then the other.

He runs for it.

Footsteps echo in the empty hall. His own, of course. Only his own. Boots pound into the concrete despite his attempts at stealth. The door comes closer… closer – 

A laugh.

Tim turns on a dime, _bo_ outstretched before him, his other hand pressed to the door behind him, grasping for the handle. His hand finds it. His eyes -

Nothing.

The hallway behind him is just as empty as it was before.

His hand closes around the bar-shaped handle and pushes. Behind him, he slides the door open slowly, transitioning as smoothly as possible from looking at the hallway to seeing what waits beyond the doorway.

A catwalk. Also empty.

As quickly as he can, Tim hurls himself out the door and closes it behind him, tripping a lever on the handle to lock it for good measure.

He can't stay here.

The catwalk is latticed metal with enough rust to make him cautious. Carefully, Tim picks his way to the edge of it, peering over. It's too dark to make out much, but from a far door, he sees orange light spilling out. It flickers, as if from a fire.

It's them. Eying the room cautiously, Tim follows the edges of the room until he reaches a set of stairs. They're the same rusted metal as the catwalk, so he takes them slowly. His eyes dart around the room in an even pattern. In front of him. Behind him. Far wall, left corner. Far wall, right corner. Below him. Above him.

By the time he reaches the open door, he's almost sure there's nothing in there with him.

The moment Tim steps through the doorway is like stepping outside of a bubble. Beyond the threshold, sound bursts in Tim's ears. The roaring of the fire. Bruce's grunt as he and Jason lift the body of a vampire, throwing it on the pile. Dick laughing at Cass' expression. The annoyed grumbles from Damian, made to stand at the far side of the room, away from the flame.

Why hadn't he heard this from the other side of the...

The door behind Tim is closed. When he tests the handle, it's securely locked. Rusted, too. Hadn't he just…

_Continue walking._

Tim blinks, pulling his hand from where it had been rubbing at the skin just above the high collar of his uniform. In front of him, the others carry on burning the bodies. They haven't noticed him yet.

So as to not interrupt, Tim makes his way to where Dick and Cass are standing. At this point, he's used to Cass' almost preternatural senses, and he doesn't jump when she turns to greet him, slinging an arm around his shoulder and smiling. Dick nudges her until she transfers Tim to her other side, so he can stand between them.

"Where were you?" Dick asks. "We were getting worried."

"I was - "

Tim's neck twinges with something that's almost pain but isn't.

He coughs, cutting himself off.

"One of the vamps took off in a side corridor. I tried to chase him down, but he got out of a window before I could reach him. Got away."

Dick narrows his eyes, a small frown making itself known on his mouth.

"You shouldn't have gone off alone," he says, reaching out to clasp Tim's shoulder. Not on the side with the -

_Nothing._ _Nothing happened._

"Something could have happened," Dick continues. "You could have gotten hurt."

"I'm _fine." _Tim tries to shrug off Dick's grip, but he doesn't budge. "Jeez. _Nothing _happened. Well, a vamp pulled a runner, but other than _that_ nothing happened."

Dick sighs.

"Alright." The hand on Tim's shoulder goes to the opposite one so that both Dick and Cass have their arms looped around him. "Just promise me you'll be careful?"

At Tim's other side, Cass shifts her body language to make her presence both obvious and notable. She looks at him like she expects him to promise her the same.

A small smile creeps across Tim's face before he can stop it.

"I'll be careful," he says, letting the two of them envelop him in a hug.

The fire at the center of the room wavers, dying down. Bruce and Jason toss the last corpse onto it, dislodging sparks that arc through the air. On the other side of the room, the door lies still and silent. As if it hadn't been opened at all.

"I promise."

* * *

Another pass of the knife.

More wood shavings fall, joining the growing pile on Tim’s workbench. In his hands, the point of the stake takes shape.

A few years ago, they tried outsourcing this to one of Wayne Industries' contractors, but Bruce could never quite bring himself to trust this to off-site mass production.

These days they have a contract with a logging company upstate. The company sends them excess wood, and the Cave has the right equipment on-site to get it into rod-shaped pieces. From there, it's all carving and sanding by hand.

Tim angles the knife to scrape off the last imperfection in the stake's tip and brings it to the sander. The machine makes quick work of the wood's uneven surface. Tim holds it up to blow off the excess sawdust before placing the stake on the growing pile of finished ones.

It's still too small for his comfort.

On the other end of the table, Tim reaches for the stack of semi-pointed dowels and plucks the next one off the top of it. Again, the rasp of the knife echoes in the empty cave.

For a given quality of empty, of course. Far above, the cave’s resident bats chatter to each other, jostling for position. Below, the water of the cave’s natural river flows quickly, splashing against rock and metal. Somewhere off on the infirmary level, Alfred will be taking inventory of their medical supplies. With the League's latest incursion onto Gotham territory, they've gone through so much of their store in just the past week...

With the next scrape of the carving knife, Tim puts too much pressure on the downward stroke. The dowel shifts in his hand, knocking the blade off course. The edge of the blade slices through the barely-formed tip of the stake, lopping it off. Tim pulls it back too quickly, slicing a shallow gash in his finger as the knife passes.

The stake clatters to the floor. Sharp, bright pain bursts in his finger as Tim hisses in surprise. He throws the knife down, letting it slide across the table. He leaves the stake where he dropped it.

He holds his shaking hand up to the workbench's lamp.

The dim light of the cave wouldn’t have been enough to see the extent of the damage, but in the bright fluorescence of his workstation, Tim watches blood well up from the cut. It beads on the surface of his skin before the dome of it collapses under its own weight, forging a red trail down the front of Tim’s hand. It pools in the lines of his palm and begins to drip down his wrist; a small, red river.

The side of Tim's neck itches beneath his high collar. Something beneath the surface of the skin twinges before devolving into a throbbing, dull pressure.

He tries to ignore it. There are more important things.

Tim leans closer to the table, bringing his hand closer to his face while still keeping it in the light.

He needs to get a better look at the damage. To see if he'll need stitches or if he can fix this with a bandaid and peroxide. Hopefully the latter, but you can't be too careful in this business...

Up close, his blood is a vibrant red. Which is a weird thought, since it's always that color. The way it seeps from the cut is almost artistic, in a strange way.

Does blood have a smell and Tim's just never noticed before?

Tim's mouth drops open just a fraction, his eyes zero in on his finger before going a little unfocused. The blood is warm on his lips. The cut only stings a little when he sucks at it, the taste of copper bursting along his tongue.

_Just like that, little bird. _

Tim’s heartbeat stutters. Skips. He gasps, ripping his hand away from his mouth.

His breaths comes quickly. His pulse echoes in his veins, thrumming with cold dread and something oddly warm.

The lights of the cave shift around him, darkening.

Tim slumps forward, catching himself on the worktable. This is the safest place in the city. The highest concentration of hunters outside of Barbara’s Clocktower, and each of them paranoid enough to triple ward the place at a minimum.

Nothing should get past that. Nothing can get past that. Not even...

Tim’s eyes want to dart around the cave. To search out any potential blind spot. Any point of entry. Anywhere where he could be snuck up on. But he can’t. He can’t make them move from staring straight ahead into the empty air of the cave.

He stands so still and so long that the chill in the air begins to seep through his armor. The armor he’s still wearing inside their sanctuary seven days later.

His hand inches towards his neck, rubbing at it through the barrier of his armor.

Look. Contrary to what Damian may say, Tim’s not an idiot. He disappeared from sightlines for an indeterminate amount of time. And some days his neck - his _neck _\- hurts like he's been stabbed.

There is very little coincidence in this job.

But. Every time he glances in a mirror, all he can see is that there’s nothing _there._

It's all normal, unbroken skin. Just like always.

But it doesn't explain the itch beneath the skin or the ache in his teeth or the way that he apparently just _tried to suck his own blood_.

_Something_ happened that night. And Tim can speculate, but at the end of the day, he has no _damn_ idea what it was.

From where he's leaned on top of the work table, he tries to breathe deeply. To control the restless pounding of his heart. He focuses on it so intently that he doesn't even hear the footsteps.

"Master Timothy -," a voice that is unmistakably Alfred's says.

Tim's entire body jolts. It takes everything he has to keep his hand from flying to his neck defensively. Not that there's anything there for them to see...

"Um, yeah?" Tim pushes himself off the worktable, standing as straight as possible. "What is it Alfred."

Alfred, at least, has the decency to not mention Tim's surprise.

"Nothing much, Master Timothy. It is only that a new shipment of supplies arrived earlier this night, and I thought to request your assistance in the infirmary."

Which is very possibly Alfred-speak for _'I'm slightly concerned that you've been carving stakes for the better part of the day and I want to keep an eye on you without being obtrusive about it.'_

"Sure," Tim says, gesturing to the table. "Just let me - "

Alfred casts a critical eye at the table.

"Indeed," he says. "Although, I do seem to recall the armory being _more_ than full as of this night's inventory count. Master Bruce rarely does things by half measures, after all." Alfred pauses, but when Tim doesn't respond, he continues. "Do you find our preparations lacking, Master Timothy?"

Tim blanches. "Oh, no, Alfred. I didn't mean to imply that. I just..."

Is there a tactful way to say ‘this is the only thing keeping my hands from shaking and I have _no damn idea why?_'

Alfred must sense the panic on Tim's face.

"Never mind all that," Alfred says. "The infirmary needs more immediate attention if you would care to assist?"

For Tim, it's a saving grace from having to actually answer the question.

And this is why he likes Alfred. Where Bruce would have forced him to talk about it, Damian would have mocked, Jason would have prodded, or Dick would have been so damn sympathetic that Tim would have wanted to vomit, Alfred is the only one willing to give him an out and to let him deal with this on his own time. So long as he _does_ deal with it, that is.

"Okay," Tim says. At Alfred's nod, he steps forward, forging ahead towards their infirmary to help restock. It’ll be better to be ready in case something happens. And Alfred’s right in his implication that this will be more useful than adding yet more stakes to their growing collection.

But still…

Tim casts a glance back at the table and the two piles of wood.

You really can't be too careful.

* * *

Salt on the windowsills, silver thread across the door.

Not that these things are ever _not_ there, but tonight Tim’s feeling particularly inspired to lay down new wards. The protective talisman Alfred gave him for his fifteenth birthday hangs above his bed. He's stacked his pile of freshly-sharpened stakes in an easily accessible drawer of the nightstand and hidden a silver dagger beneath his pillow. There are two glasses by his bed and both of them are full of holy water.

It used to be harder to get, back before Jason came back. But after a bet was taken too far they realized that an online certification is sufficient for a blessing with enough kick to melt a vampire’s face off… apparently.

Six nights have passed since the factory and Tim can barely claim to have slept through half of them. Kneeling before the loose board at the back corner of his room, his eyelids feel like lead. Even so, his heart jackrabbits in his chest. It's strange; a single point of rapid motion surrounded by an ocean of Tim's relative stillness.

Leaning forward, he pries the floorboard loose. The tips of his fingers press to lacquered hardwood, and in those points of pressure, Tim can _feel _his pulse. His veins throb with his blood's passage. It's close enough to the surface that his fingers twitch in response.

The space beneath the floorboard isn't there by accident. Tim had hollowed it out himself six months into the start of his apprenticeship. Normally, it's hidden beneath a heavy chest full of knives, hunting leathers, and (unknown to Bruce) a single box of silvered bullets for Alfred's shotgun. Even with the wiry strength of Tim's muscles, the chest is a beast to move.

But move it he did.

The compartment itself is small. Smaller than you might expect for the size of the floorboard, but Tim had taken care to line the space with silver and cold iron. The latter doesn't do much at all to the bloodsuckers, but you can never be _under_prepared in this business.

In the compartment, there is a box made of yew wood older than Tim has been alive. It - and its contents - had been a present from Alfred on Tim's fifteenth birthday. The box, Alfred had said, was one of many he had carved in his youth. Yew trees were plentiful in England and the particularly old ones often had great powers of purification.

To an elder vampire, touching yew box as old as this would be like touching hot coals. The box's clasp - silver, of course - pops open easily. And inside is the second part of the present: A beautiful, intricate talisman that radiated protection so strongly that _humans_ could barely touch it, let alone anything even remotely undead.

Using something like this for long periods of time would be draining on even the strongest hunters, so it was best kept locked away until they had no other options. Tim, even having _just_ taken it out was already feeling a bit dizzy.

He doesn't remember it being this strong, but Tim reassures himself with the knowledge that if it's hard for him to be near, certain bastard vampire lords won't even be able to come _close._

He _really_ should have had it on him that night in the factory when -

Cold pinpricks of pain - almost like the feeling of claws - trace the path of Tim's spine. There is a sound in Tim's ears that could be hissing, or it could be the sound of someone speaking loudly in a distant room.

The thought of... _whatever_ Tim had been thinking of flees from his mind, but the strange sound (voice?) only gets louder as Tim lifts the talisman, slipping its silver chain around his neck. It catches on the small hairs at the back of it, brushing against the area that's been sore for the last _week _-

The voice starts _screaming_.

_Tim_ is screaming, doubled over and writhing on the floor at the _pain_. It feels like someone stabbed him where the chain touches his neck. It feels like someone is trying to cut his fucking _head _off.

Distantly, Tim hears the door to his room slam open.

Someone shouts his name - _frantically_ \- and there are a series of rushed footsteps before there are hands on Tim. Bracing his shoulders down, checking for injury. All as Tim screams bloody murder without _any_ of his usual hard-won control over pain.

Tim isn't even sure who it is by the time that the searing white heat _burning_ through his body becomes too much and he loses consciousness.

* * *

The room is dark.

Tim holds his flashlight in one hand and his knife in the other. The blade is silvered and sharp, but neither of those will matter if he can't keep his focus.

Word had come to the cave weeks ago; vampires. Here, in Gotham's factory district.

They'd spent the time preparing. Their stakes had been sharpened. Their leathers, reinforced.

They had entered the factory with guns blazing, so to speak, and in doing so had walked straight into an ambush. The coven had known they were coming.

_He _had known they were coming.

And Tim has no doubt that _he_ is here now, somewhere in the inky darkness beyond the single beam of light.

Tim stands at the doorway, hesitant. He shouldn't be this far away from the others.

Something itches in the back of his mind. A sense of _wrongness _in the situation. He's not one of their group who's prone to wandering off, _especially_ in the middle of a battle. He follows Bruce's rules. Respects their group's protocol. There's no _reason_ for him to be this deep in the vampires' hideout...

The back of Tim's back prickles with awareness. A burst of short, cold air gusts through the short hairs at the back of his neck.

With the speed of a sharp violin chord, Tim throws his back to the door frame, angling his knife to a ready position to strike at the space behind him -

and -

Nothing.

_Nothing._

The hall is empty.

At a glance, the lit portion of the room is also empty.

In his haste, the beam had shifted to one of the room's closer corners, illuminating what is now the far wall of the room and leaving the other two dark.

Frustrated in his own jumpiness, Tim exhales sharply.

In other circumstances, it'd almost be a sigh of relief.

He turns back to the room, this beam shifting and –

Ra’s.

He towers over Tim. A hand flashes out, striking the flashlight from Tim’s hand.

It clatters to the floor, leaving Tim with only the light of the hall to work with.

He jumps back, swinging with the knife. It catches Ra's on the forearm. A spray of black blood splatters against his cloak.

Ra's pulls his injured arm back, hissing as he strikes out with the other.

It’s too fast for Tim to counter.

Ra’s’ hand closes on Tim's throat, closing on his windpipe, lifting him into the air at a speed that causes him to drop his knife in surprise.

Tim grasps at it, trying to pry off the hand even as he knows that elder vampires are strong enough to bend steel. His legs kick involuntarily, but Ra's holds him at a distance.

In a blur, Ra's slams him into the hallway wall.

Tim's head hits the concrete. The room spins. A clawed hand brushes against the delicate skin of his face as it plucks off Tim's mirrored lenses.

When his vision stops swimming long enough to make out what's happening around him, Ra's stands there, holding the lenses up for Tim to see.

Tim's eyes widen.

One is already punctured.

It must have happened during the fight, somehow. But if his protection from compulsion was already damaged - that would mean that when Ra's escaped the battle, in that bare _second_ in which he had looked back and made eye contact with Tim...

Oh god.

This is why he's here, isolated from the others, _alone _with a man best described as a _literally_ bloodthirsty immortal monster.

Tim begins to shake. He can't tell if it's from panic or from the lack of oxygen.

Ra's smirks, leaning in.

Tim kicks at him, but there isn't enough strength in his legs to do much.

Ra's' other hand rises to Tim's face, holding his head still.

Tim tries not to meet his eyes, but vampires as old as Ra's are insanely fast, and before Tim even really knows it, his entire field of vision seems filled with the deep, lurid _red_ of the vampire's irises.

They're... mesmerizing, really.

Tim can't look away.

The hand on his throat loosens, just a fraction.

"Sleep," Ra's voice says, somewhere below where his eyes are locked onto Tim's. "There is nothing to worry about, nor need for fear. _Sleep_ and forget."

Tim's eyelids are heavy. His body, unresponsive.

Vaguely, he registers being pulled from the wall and draped between strong, cold arms. Even more distant is the scrape of claws at the protective leather around his neck and the subsequent coldness of the air against his bare skin.

By the time he feels cold, wet sharpness against his pulse point, the world around him has faded into nothing but a dream.

* * *

The world is loud and bright.

Tim’s eyes are heavy as lead weights, his movement sluggish.

Distantly he registers the feeling of unyielding padding beneath him and a band of pressure holding him to it. Tight pain makes itself known at his ankles and wrists. 

Ungloved and human-warm, a hand feels the part of his neck that’s raw and aching_._

Words are spoken. Their tone is near-frantic, but Tim is too far gone to hear them.

The sound of a vial being unstopped, followed by a thick, noxious smell.

Liquid falls onto Tim’s neck.

Everything is _burning_.

The world explodes into bright, painful light and Tim is screaming and _screaming_ and –

Darkness.

* * *

The air in the factory is cold.

Colder still are the teeth at Tim’s throat.

No.

_In_ his throat.

Tim's eyes blink open.

He's on the ground, lying on the outspread silk of Ra's ridiculously cliché cloak. Behind him, it feels like every inch of Ra's body is pressed up against him. An arm around his chest pulls him close and keeps him there. The forearm of the other is a makeshift pillow beneath Tim's head, while the rest of it keeps Ra's propped above him as he sucks at Tim's neck.

His lips are slightly chapped, but they work at the skin of Tim's neck with something like reverence.

Unconsciously, Tim arches into it, pressing himself back against the hard bulk of Ra's’ muscles.

The arm around Tim tightens in response. Ra's pushes a leg between Tim's, using the new angle to drink even more deeply.

Now almost beneath him, Tim moans high in the back of his throat. Ra's takes it as encouragement and presses him even farther into the floor.

Tim's neck aches with the speed at which Ra's begins to draw blood.

Again, the world begins to fade around him. Tim tries to lift an arm to push Ra's off of him, but he can't even get it an inch off the ground before it falls back down weakly.

Above him, Ra's almost ... _nuzzles_ against Tim's neck. Of all the things Tim could be focusing on - the feeling of blood being forced outwards through the two puncture holes in his skin, the heavy weight of Ra's pinning him, the hand on his chest that feels like it's nearly cracking his sternum - but somehow it's the strange, bristly feeling of Ra's facial hair against his oversensitive skin.

Tim decides he doesn't like it. Not that there's anything to like about this situation in the first place.

Bad manscaping is, after all, the least of his problems.

Around Tim, the room spins. Darkness creeps along the edges of his vision.

Tim closes his eyes and can’t seem to find the energy to re-open them.

The itchiness at his neck retreats. He hears what sounds like a satisfied growl before something hot and _wet _is pressing against his lips.

With what little effort he can muster, Tim presses his mouth shut on instinct.

Ra’s isn’t having any of it.

A hand at his jaw forces his mouth open.

Tim is in no state to fight it.

His mouth tastes like copper, salt, and something _other._ Somehow, Tim knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that Ra’s is feeding him his blood.

Which can only mean he’s trying to –

Tim tries to twist away, but Ra’s has him thoroughly pinned. The pressure against his limbs and torso increases, and there’s nothing Tim can do but lie there and let Ra’s do as he pleases with him.

“Just like that, little bird,” Ra’s purrs.

* * *

_Just like that._

This time, Tim opens his eyes to the Cave’s infirmary.

The first thing he notices is that lights are dimmed but not entirely off.

The second thing is that he’s strapped to a gurney.

Tim pulls at the restraints on his wrists. Tries to sit up despite the ones on his chest. The leather gives a nearly inaudible creak but holds firm.

Exhausted already, Tim lets himself fall back.

They seem to have given him a pillow, at least, but after Tim’s struggle it’s worked its way to being uncomfortably wedged beneath his back. And frantic wiggling doesn’t do much to dislodge it.

Something prickles at the back of his neck and –

They’ve placed the gurney in a way where Tim can see anyone who enters or leaves the infirmary.

He isn’t sure if it’s relief that he feels when he sees that it’s only Dick, standing off-center in the doorway and peering in. The lines of _concern_ in his expression are deep enough to make Tim want to throw something.

“You’re up,” Dick says.

Tim narrows his eyes. Flexes against his restraints.

“Kinda wish I wasn’t,” he says.

Dick takes a step into the room. When Tim doesn’t object, he takes a few more until he’s standing a respectable distance from Tim’s bedside. The muscles in his legs tense like he’s holding himself back from coming closer.

“What’s wrong?” Tim asks. There’s an edge to it, even as he tries to keep his voice even. “You can come closer, Dick. I don’t bite.”

Dick flinches back. Visibly.

It’s more than a reaction that Tim being difficult would normally get.

He tilts his head in confusion, brow furrowing.

Saying Dick looks like he’s about to break into a cold sweat isn’t the most charitable of descriptions, but it _is_ the most accurate.

“Uh, Tim,” Dick starts. He half-extends a hand before slowly pulling it back. “Do you remember what happened?”

Tim remembers the talisman, bright and burning. The feeling of his skin blistering. The ache in his neck, in his bones. He remembers a voice in his head and the way that it _screamed._

“Not really, no.”

“You…” Dick looks like he really wants to break eye contact. “Have you looked in the mirror recently?”

Tim blinks.

“…yeah?” Tim doesn’t make a habit of it or anything, but he at least tries to make sure he looks acceptably alive before he leaves his room in the morning.

“And you didn’t notice the…?” Dick trails off like Tim is supposed to have any idea what he’s talking about.

“Notice the _what_, Dick?”

Dick walks to a table set off to the side of the infirmary. From it, he pulls a mirror.

Tim finds himself distracted by the way the room’s lights glint dully off of the silvered metal – so much so that it’s something of a surprise when Dick is standing in front of him once more, holding the mirror upright between them.

Tim reaches for it, but Dick pulls it back before he can touch it.

“That’s uh, maybe not the best idea right now,” he says.

Tim narrows his eyes but says nothing as Dick holds it up, angling it until Tim can see whatever’s caught Dick’s attention.

Tim… finds his eyes sliding away from the glass every time he tries to look at the reflected image.

“_Tim_,” Dick says, exasperated. It’s the closest to snapping that Tim thinks he’s heard from him… ever, really.

Tim inhales deeply, focusing on keeping every hitch in his lungs too controlled for Dick to hear. He squeezes his eyes shut until it hurts, before forcing them open and blinking rapidly against the static overlaying his vision.

He has to _make_ himself look. With each inch closer, the pull to tear his eyes away grows stronger.

When Tim finally manages it, what he sees pulls a strangled gasp from his throat.

His neck is a _ruin._

The flesh is mottled blue and black, a mosaic of bruises spiraling out from two inflamed puncture wounds. The network of veins leading from them are engorged with venom; bright blue even against the bruising of Tim’s skin. Now that Tim can see it, he can _feel_ the way his blood pulses sluggishly through his neck, just beneath his skin.

Tim’s breath stutters. His eyes widen.

He thinks he’s going to be sick.

“I… _how?_” he asks. The edge of desperation in his voice is sharp enough to cut.

Dick pulls back the mirror, stashing it unceremoniously. “Based on the bruising, Alfred thinks it happened about a week ago. Which would coincide with the raid on the League base.”

“But I don’t… remember?” Tim raises a tentative hand to his neck, flinching back the moment he touches his abused skin.

It’s not surprising. The amount of bruising alone is more than he’s seen on some of the more ravenous vampires’ victims.

Dick shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot. Restlessness has always been a tell with him.

“Our best guess is that you got charmed by whoever did it,” he says. “They probably commanded you to ignore the bite and to hide it from everyone else. _Why_ we didn’t notice that you’d suddenly been wearing high collars all the time, I have no idea. But –”

Dick is rambling, Tim notes. It’s a habit Dick’s tried to break, but it still comes out when he’s nervous.

“_Dick_,” Tim pleads.

Dick stops with his mouth half-open before he snaps it shut.

The silence hangs heavy in the air for a full minute before Dick inches closer. Closer than Bruce or even Alfred would have let him get had they been here. He perches gingerly on the edge of Tim’s bed, looking like he’s torn between sinking into the gurney with him or jumping up to stand on the other side of the room.

Given what’s apparently happened to Tim, he can’t really blame him.

Tim doesn’t speak again until Dick’s hand reaches to curl around Tim’s, his thumb rubbing gentle circles into the joint of Tim’s wrist.

“How long do I have?” Tim asks him.

“… Bruce is working on an antidote,” Dick says, in lieu of answering.

He squeezes Tim’s hand tightly, as if that will change the fact that Bruce has been working on an antidote without success for several years now.

But Tim knows better than to try arguing that point.

“Will you stay?” he asks instead.

“Tim –”

“Just until I fall asleep,” Tim asks. “Please?”

Staying in a room with a soon-to-be fledgling vampire for any longer than necessary is so far beyond breaking Bruce’s protocols that Dick would probably get stuck on monitor duty for an entire year if anyone found out.

But Tim asking for anything even _resembling_ help is uncharacteristic at best.

Dick, he knows, would probably sooner bench himself than give up what might be the last few days Tim has left to live.

“Okay,” Dick says. “But _just_ until you’re asleep.” He squeezes Tim’s hand again and shifts until he’s sitting cross-legged on the gurney. This close to Tim, he feels so warm.

Tim smiles at it, and lets himself indulge in whatever pointless, sweet banter Dick can come up with until he finds himself drifting off.

* * *

In the middle of the Cave’s night cycle, Tim’s eyes fly open.

His head lolls against his pillow.

He’s powerless to stop it.

In the corner of his eye, a single shadow is out of place.

It looms over him.

The edges of it waver like smoke.

It leans forward, covering him.

What might be a hand is cold against Tim’s jaw.

What is probably a thumb slips into his mouth, tracing the points of his teeth.

What are almost certainly lips press against his neck –

\- and bite.

* * *

_Just like that_.

The words echo around Tim.

They land on his skin and take root.

There is nothing he can see but the shadow.

There is nothing _but _ -

Warmth.

Warmth pouring out from the body curled up next to him, intermingling with the sweet, cloying scent of _blood._

Tim’s instincts pull at him. He finds himself leaning forward, reaching. His hands move forward easily, slipping through their restraints where the leather has been slit. He feels the fire-hot pulse of blood beneath skin. The firmness of muscle. The salt of sweat on his tongue and the give of flesh as he _bites – _

Blood bursts across his tongue, rich and coppery.

The body beneath him shouts, trying to push him off.

Tim scrambles back, hissing high in his throat. He lands low to the ground, balanced on two crouched legs and a hand on the floor. The other hovers, ready to reach for a weapon.

The lingering blood is hot and sweet against his tongue as Tim licks it off his lips.

He wants more.

“_Tim,”_ the body calls. Desperately.

Across the room, there is a crash. A door swings open and light floods into the room.

It _burns._

Tim screeches, rushing the source of his pain.

“No, Bruce!” the body behind him yells.

The body with the light swings at him, but Tim ducks back, whirls around and – faster than human eyes can probably track – sprints out the door.

It galls him to leave prey behind him, especially one with such delicious blood.

But a voice echoing in his head drives him forward.

_Come to me_, the voice beckons.

It sends him running out of the cave system, through one of its lesser-used escape routes, and out into Gotham’s night.

_My thrall, my consort, my beloved, _it croons.

_Together,_ it whispers, _we will rule._

And Tim.

Tim can’t do anything but listen.

**Author's Note:**

> Some potential triggers to be aware of!
> 
> * non-consensual vampire turning, with a side of non-consensual sexual contact  
* the resulting trauma experienced by Tim (PTSD, auditory and sensory hallucinations)  
* due to vampirism taking hold, Tim involuntary assaults Dick and attempts to drink his blood
> 
> Title is borrowed from [[To Simulate the Burning of the Heart]](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/browse?contentId=37562) by Patrizia Cavalli


End file.
